


On the Relativity of Truth

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: 5 + 1, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rivalry, background canon het - Freeform, post-coup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-14 09:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11205312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: Or, five times Brockdorff believed Gudovich was a spy and one time he didn't.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MildredMost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/gifts).



“Are you lost?”

The young man standing in the middle of the spacious antechamber, gazing absently at the paintings lining the walls spins around to face Brockdorff with a startled and, oddly, guilty expression, like he had been caught doing something embarrassing. 

Brockdorff raises one eyebrow at him in askance, already cataloging his uniform, epaulets, blond hair, high cheekbones, grey eyes and the air of innocent awe he practically radiates. 

_Provincial, colonel or something like that, young and inexperienced. Too attractive for his own good._

__“Hello. I’m Gudovich, Andrei Vasilyevich. Colonel of the—“

“If you’re looking for the Empress or perhaps the Grand Duchess you’re in the wrong place. This is the Grand Duke’s suit.” 

The boy flushes. Brockdorff, meanwhile, is busy thinking, _going by the accent, probably crawled out from somewhere in Little Russia. Same lilt as Kirill Razumovsky…Peter would know that one better. Family not influential in the capital enough for him to have relatives or intimate friends here…_

“Then I’m rather in the right place.” 

This gives Brockdorff pause. “You’re looking for Pyotr Fyodorovich? On what business?”

“I’ve been appointed his new chamberlain. Here, please. These are my papers.” The boy – _Gudovich –_ strides forward and holds out a rolled up document which he had fished out of an inner pocket. 

Brockdorff takes it gingerly and skims over it. The bloody thing is in Russian and he can’t be sure what it says, but it certainly looks official. _Why did no one tell me of a new appointment?_

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name? Do you know who I need to report to or who might know? Ought I report to the Grank Duke directly?”

“Absolutely not.” Brockdorff tucks away the papers and catches the way Gudovich’s eyes follow his movements nervously, but he doesn’t say anything. “I am Baron von Brockdorff, senior chamberlain to His Highness. All administrative matters go through me. It’s quite better that you handle your official duties without bothering the Grank Duke whatsoever. And—“

A loud bang at the end of the hall makes them both start. The antechamber is suddenly full with laughter and shouting. Brockodrff turns in time to see Peter throw up both hands out of the way of a whining young pup who tries to jump and grab whatever Peter is holding, but falls miserably short. Peter is followed by a gaggle of officers, almost all in Prussian uniforms, and a few young courtiers. 

‘Your Highness,” Brockdorff says loudly in order to get Peter’s attention. 

Peter turns, forgetting about the pup, who takes the opportunity to catch hold of the piece of sausage in Peter’s hand and swallow it down. It licks Peter’s fingers, then settles at his feet. “Huh? Oh, Brockdorff! You missed all the fun again!” Peter’s eyes are dancing and Brockdorff thinks fondly, _So today’s a good day, then._

 __“Have you met Colonel Gudovich?”

“Who?”

Gudovich, who, Bockdorff realizes, had been staring in something akin to amazement at Peter the entire time, steps forward and inclines his head. He keeps his eyes to the floor as he says, “Your Highness.”

“Andrei Vasilyevich Gudovich. Newly appointed to your household. I haven’t had a chance to brief him yet.” Brockdorff holds Gudovich’s papers out to Peter. 

Gudovich looks up as Brocdorff introduces him. He and Peter stare at each other for a long, silent moment. The chattering officers behind Peter suddenly fall silent and Brockdorff can feel something electric pass through the room, putting Brockdorff on edge. “Your Highness?”

Peter reaches out for the papers absentmindedly. He’s still studying Gudovich’s face. The pup at his feet stretches out its face and sniffs at the newcomer, then, slowly, gets up and pads over to Gudovich, circling around his feet and sniffing at him curiously. Peter skims through the papers and says, glancing over at Brockdorff, “I didn’t know we were getting a new appointment.”

“I didn’t either.” 

“Odd.”

“It all happened very fast, Your Highness,” Gudovich cuts in, still flushed. “I’m certain you would have been told otherwise.” 

Peter hands the papers back to Brockdorff, completely losing interest in anything official. “If only,” he scoffs. “I’m always the last to know anything. Well, Brockdorff will fill you in. I see you’re a colonel? Which regiment?—Come, Max.” The pup instantly separates itself from Gudovich and returns to Peter’s side. As Gudovich begins to answer, Brockdorff manages to single out Rumberg in Peter’s retinue, catch his eyes and wave him over. 

“I want to know who this Gudovich really is,” he says quietly as Rumberg comes to stand beside him. “Who, where from, why he’s here, who his family are. Everything.”

“You think he’s not who he says he is? Just looks like a regular provincial officer to me. Got a relative to pull a favor, probably.” 

“Have you heard of a Gudovich at court? Have you heard of this family at all?”

“No, but—“

“ _Find out_ who he is. At least how he got this position. Come on, Rumberg, you have to work for all those sausages and wine you consume.” Brockdorff gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder and moves to rejoin the rowdy group of officers and courtiers around Peter and Gudovich, keeping to the outside so that he can observe better without being noticed. 

“You were at the University of Königsberg?” Peter is saying. He has scooped up the pup and is letting Gudovich pet it. “I would have gone, if I wasn’t stuck here by my Aunt’s will. Or maybe not. They probably make you study Latin and I can’t stand the damn thing.” 

Gudovich answers with something halfway diplomatic and launches into some anecdote from his time at university. Brockdorff notes, with some dismay, how easily Gudovich manages to keep Peter’s attention. How… _enraptured_ they are with each other. 

Brockdorff doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like it at all. 

*~*

Rumberg comes to sit beside him at a small court theater performance a few days later. His expression is carefully neutral and Brockdorff keeps his eyes on the stage even as he prompts Rumberg to speak. 

“Gudovich is nothing special,” Rumberg begins quietly so that only Brockdorff can hear. “He’s the eldest son of a Cossack who’s got some influence over in Little Russia. He and his younger brother, Ivan, both went to university in Prussia. Gudovich came back to Russia about three years ago so…in ’55 about? Joined the army, served well. Got a transfer to Petersburg at the end of last year. The only interesting thing is in who he got his recommendation from.”

“And?”

Rumberg hesitates for a moment. “Ekaterina Alexeyevna.”

Brockdorff looks over at him sharply. “The snake? Are you certain?” 

“Quite. He said he met a lady at a party a couple of months ago who took a fancy to him. She turned out to be a lady in waiting to the Grand Duchess, or maybe just a friend, he wasn’t clear there. Gudovich told this lady that he very much aspired to a respectable career and was fascinated by the court and all this romantic nonsense. She, having taken a liking to him, promised to arrange a position for him through her friend, the Grand Duchess.”

Brockodorff fails to hold back a snort. “Likely story.” 

“You don’t believe it?”

“Where would Gudovich even meet this nameless lady, who took such a fancy to him?”

“Yelagins’ party. He was introduced by someone of the Vorontsovs. He knows them well, apparently.”

“So why didn’t he just ask for a recommendation from Mikhail Illarionovich?”

Rumberg shrugs. 

“And then…Ekaterina Alexeyevna is in short supply of female friends. And if she did wish to make a court appointment as a favor, she would far more likely have taken him in closer to her own household. Unless, of course…” Brockdorff has not allowed himself to entertain the thought until now. But it makes sense. 

“Unless what?” Rumberg is oblivious, as he is to most things involving critical thinking. 

Brockdorff looks over to the front row, where Peter is seated in the center, with Liza Vorontsov on his right and Gudovich on his left. Gudovich had used the last few days to completely ingratiate himself to Peter – always telling him exactly what he wants to hear. It drives Brockdorff crazy. Even now, he leans over and murmurs something to Peter, making the Grand Duke smile and laugh, a joyful sound that carries over the dramatic music and applause as the first act of _Julius Caesar_ comes to a close. 

“I think,” Brockdorff says slowly, “we’ve got a little baby snake slithering through our grass.”


	2. II

Peter is upset about…something. Brockdorff had stopped following his train of thought a while ago. It has something to do with the war, with his Aunt, maybe with Catherine. All he knows is that Peter has been pacing restlessly from one end of the room to the other for the last half an hour, going on and on without bothering to take counsel from either himself of Gudovich, who is the only other person there. (Which, in the latter case, is probably a good thing, admittedly.) 

All Brockdorff knows is that he has had a bloody awful headache all morning and his mind feels like a carriage that has been forced onto a muddy sideroad and is now getting stuck at every ditch and bump. He cannot concentrate or form any analytical thought. What he wants to do most of all is to _sit down._ But Peter has not given either of them leave nor has he indicated by mood or any gesture that this would be appropriate. He, himself, has not sat down for the entire duration of this audience. Had they been alone or in the presence of longtime intimates, Brockdorff may have allowed himself the luxury anyway, but he refuses to breach protocol in front of Gudovich. 

“Brockdorff, are you even listening?” 

He hasn’t been. “Yes, Your Highness. But I’m afraid this is not productive. We cannot influence the course of the war without going into extremely dangerous territory.”

“Your Highness,” Gudovich cuts in. “Perhaps if you could get some of your Aunt’s advisors to see things your way…”

“And get himself into even more trouble than he already is in with the Empress? You know how jealous she is of her influence on her favorites,” Brockdorff says. He forces himself to pay attention every time Gudovich speaks, but this is the most he can do in this state where his consciousness is half fog and he feels like his coat has shrunken two sizes overnight and is trying to suffocate him. “Actually,” he tacks on, with only halfhearted spite. “You _wouldn’t_ know, would you.”

“At least I’m trying to be constructive,” Gudovich shoots back with a pout. 

“Can the two of you ever not bicker?”

“No,” Brockdorff says. 

“Yes,” Gudovich says at the same time. 

“Oh for God’s sake! We’re done here.” Peter turns on his heal and makes a dramatic exit, leaving Brockdorff and Gudovich alone. 

Brockdorff takes the opportunity to collapse into the nearest chair. 

“Are you alright?” Gudovich’s voice drifts to him through the ever-thickening fog in his head. Brockdorff doesn’t respond until he feels the boy’s hand on his shoulder. “M. Brockdorff? You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine. Tired, that is all. That’s what happens when you’re the only person capable of properly running a royal household.”

The look Gudovich gives him is amused and Brockdorff figures he’s been too self-congratulatory. He can’t think straight but he also simply cannot be ill. Who would keep Peter from doing emotional, idiotic things? Certainly not Gudovich. _He would only make it worse._

“You’re burning up.” Gudovich has taken a seat in the chair next to his and has found his wrist. Brockdorff snatches his hand away. He refuses to be humiliated in front of this _boy._ (And if his initial suspicions about Gudovich being a spy for Catherine had been correct, only more reason to not show weakness.) “Let me help you.”

“I’m fine.” Brockdorff tries to get up but the world tilts dangerously and he is forced to grab the back of the chair for balance. 

Gudovich jumps to his feet as well. “Please?” He looks almost hopeful and Brockdorff wishes he had the energy to sneer at him. 

Instead, fearing of making an even greater spectacle of himself, he leans against Gudovich’s shoulder, does not protest the arm that slides around his waist, and allows himself to be led back to his rooms. 

*~* 

Brockdorff does not remember most of what happens next. He can recall snippets of getting undressed, trying to get rid of Gudovich who refuses to leave, the feel of Gudovich’s hands on his skin as he helps untangle the knot of his cravat and the double fastening on his coat. The room is cool and dark and sleep hands around the corners of his vision while Gudovich fusses with giving directions to the servants to _bring honey tea_ and _light the fire._

The entire situation is embarrassing, or would have been if Brockdorff had had any energy to feel anything outside of exhaustion. To be put to bed by this _boy_ whom he had only known for several months was awkward and unnecessary and…he also clearly realizes that he probably owes Gudovich some gratitude for not leaving him in an even more awkward position in the opposite wing of the palace. 

At any rate, when Brockdorff wakes up, he is alone. A string of light seeps through the curtains and runs across the carpeted floor and the bedcovers. The fire in the hearth has died down into the blistering red of hot coal but not much more, so he must have slept for _hours._ He sits up and rubs at his face, trying to piece together what had happened before, wincing at the thought of having to face Gudovich after he had seen him in such a state. Wincing even harder at the idea that he must have disappeared for an entire day without giving Peter or anyone any notice. _Christ.  
_  
Before he can go any further along that thought process, there’s a soft nock and the door creaks open a little and then a little more until Gudovich slips quietly into the room. “Oh,” he says on catching sight of Brockdorff. “You’re awake. Good. How are you feeling?” 

“Better.” It’s true. Brockdorff runs a hand through his hair and forces himself to say, “Thank you.”

Gudovich stops and lets out a long breath. Brockdorff notices that he’s fidgeting. “It’s nothing. You were…I’d never seen you so disoriented before.”

Brockdorff tries to shake his head and stops, because that still hurts. “Good thing too. I cannot afford to have episodes like that frequently.” 

As though to busy himself, Gudovich goes over to the bedside cabinet and fills a glass with water, passing it off to Brockdorff. He opens the curtains a little wider, glances uncertainly to the fireplace, and finally takes an awkward seat in an armchair. 

“How long have I been out?” Brockdorff isn’t certain he wants to know the answer. 

“Just yesterday.”

“All day? God.”

“When was the last time you slept anyway?”

“I--“

“For more than three hours?”

“Clearly, last night.”

“And before that?”

“What is this an interrogation?”

Gudovich looks away and bites his lip. “No. I’m just concerned. Wouldn’t you be, for a friend?”

Brockdorff scoffs. “We’re not friends.”

“We could be.” There’s an awkward pause. “At any rate, you didn’t miss much of anything. I had your duties split between Rumberg, myself, Naryshkin, and Ivan Golitsin. Vanya’s even newer than me, but he’s sharp and I think you trust him more than you trust me.”

 _He doesn’t have a recommendation from the snake,_ Brockdorff wants to say. Instead, he asks, cautiously, “ _You_ were running the household?” He is already calculating all the ways this could have gone wrong. 

“Well, not exactly _running._ We were just covering for you for the official things. It wasn’t much. I came here to check on you twice, but you were asleep and I didn’t want—“ Gudovich breaks off, bites his lip and shrugs. “We didn’t want to bother you.”

It’s almost…sweet, the way he can’t shut up and the way he worries over nothing about someone who’s really no more than a colleague. _It’s suspicious is what it is,_ Brockdorff reminds himself. “And what did you tell Pyotr Fyodorovich?”

This seems to take Gudovich by surprise. “I…that you were unwell. Should I…not have?”

Brockdoeff rubs circles into his temples. The headache from the other day is mostly gone but he still feels a stuffy kind of fogginess around the edges of his consciousness. “You shouldn’t have. He has…he doesn’t deal well with that sort of thing.” Brockdorff can tell by the pinched expression on Gudovich’s face that he’s had the _pleasure_ of being a witness to Peter’s reactions on the subject. 

“He hardly noticed though. I mean—I mean, I know you like to keep on top of things, but we’re handling everything well. Perhaps…perhaps you should take another day to rest?” The honest hope in Gudovich’s eyes makes Brockdorff squint at him suspiciously. _What are you planning?_ He has some ideas. 

“No, I don’t think so.” Perhaps a couple more hours wouldn’t hurt though. “Make my excuses at the assembly and the parade. But I’ll be down for luncheon.”

“As you wish.” Gudovich gets up. “The…luncheon may be a little more formal than usual.”

“Guests?”

Gudovich nods. 

“Fine. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No. …Thank you.”

Gudovich closes the door softly behind himself as he leaves. Brockdorff lays down again and stares up at the ceiling. Embarrassment and pride aside, he really ought to be grateful. He imagines Rumberg would call the boy kind. Perhaps he would too if he wasn’t so certain something was wrong about him. 

*~*

When Gudovich had said they were going to have _guests_ for luncheon, Brockdorff did not think he meant _three ambassadors._ He feels underdressed and not nearly well enough for this as soon as he walks into the room. 

As everyone begins to take their seats around the table, Brockdorff manages to catch Peter aside to ask him quietly, “What is all of this?”

“Oh, you’re back,” Peter says, keeping an awkward distance between them. Brockdorff wonders how exactly Gudovich had described the nature of his illness. “Well, I’ve decided to play some political games of my own.”

“ _What?_ You hate politics.”

“Yes, but maybe if they like me…well, we’ll see how it goes. But Auntie can’t keep me in a closet and on a leash forever. I _am_ the future Emperor after all.”

“Your Highness,” Brockdorff says in a tone he knows Peter will recognize as disapproval. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do anything brash.”

“When did we do that? You _said_ I shouldn’t get involved with Auntie’s favorites and I won’t. This is better.”

“ _This_ is dangerous.” If the Empress found out – and she would – she would be even more furious than had Peter invited all of her ministers to dine. Not to mention all the other things that could easily go wrong. “Did you even prepare for this meeting?”

“Of course I did. Andrei helped me. It was his idea.” Peter grins at him and saunters off to speak with the French ambassador.

Brockdorff looks around and catches Gudovich’s eyes from across the room. Gudovich nods and gives him a small smile. 

_Bastard,_ Brockdorff thinks.


	3. III

They all find a way to tell him he’s being unreasonable about Andrei Gudovich – Peter’s entire suit. They’re wrong, Brockdorff has no doubt about that, but sometimes he wishes they weren’t. He doesn’t really _want_ to dislike Gudovich, but he does. It isn’t even dislike, but an instinctive sense of danger. 

Brockdorff knows why it looks absurd to everyone else. Gudovich has the air of a boy – carefree, always happy, always hopeful. Insults go over his head more often than not and he’s willing to forgive almost anything if he thinks the apology is genuine. His basic incompetence in politics does not bother anyone. It certainly does not bother Peter, who is as bloody awful at politics as a man can be. 

Brockdorff still cannot understand if it is real or a very, very good act. Was getting Peter to invite several ambassadors to a spontaneous luncheon while Brockdorff wasn’t around to monitor the situation the actions of someone who was willing to support his Prince in anything and everything or the actions of a man looking to sabotage his Prince and get him in trouble in such a way that everyone would consider the incident the Prince’s own bad judgement and nothing more?

Later, _after_ , when it is all over, Brockdorff will wonder how he had missed all the other signs among the court intrigues and the constant danger. Sunny summers at Oraniembaum will looks both more sinister and far more innocent in hindsight all at once. He will remember not only the way Gudovich usurps Peter’s attention but also the way he throws his head back in joyous wonder at the fireworks they launch over the lake in mid-August; his and Peter’s expressions are always the same in those moments. He will remember the self-satisfied way in which Gudovich tells him once, _His Highness only goes to you when he has a problem that needs solving but he goes to_ me _when he needs someone to understand._ But he will also remember the way Gudovich grabs his hand and pulls him into a snowball fight in the winter of ’59, the echoes of laughter reflecting off the walls of St. Peter’s. (It wouldn’t be Peterstadt until later – and when it became such, Brockdorff and Gudovich stand side-by-side behind Peter as he makes the first toast to commemorate the fortress’ opening.) 

They’re a tight knit group – Peter’s inner circle. They must be if they are to survive the court and all its intrigues. There’s no place for innocence and goodness here. Perhaps that is what irritates Brockdorff the most in Gudovich. Peter is the same, but Brockdorff will forgive Peter anything. For a dizzying multitude of reasons, the least of which also happen to be the most appropriate for their relative stations. Maybe Brockdorff is wary of Gudovich because he distrusts anything and everything that doesn’t have a strong selfish and manipulative streak. Maybe it’s something else. He tells himself the evidence is there, obscure and half conjecture, but he’s used to trusting his feelings. 

Gudovich corners him one night in the waning hours of another one of Peter’s drunken Oranienbaum parties. His uniform jacket is unfastened and his epaulets are askew, their golden threads sparking softly in the light of the full moon. He’s lost his cravat and his hat. The top buttons of his silk undershirt are unbuttoned and Brockdorff, mildly tipsy despite himself, has to force himself to not look. “I don’t understand,” Gudovich begins. “You hate me for some reason but I’ve only ever tried to please you and Pe—His highness.”

“Hm. You’re drunk.” Brockdorff takes a long drink from the glass he’s holding, noticing morosely that there is little left in it. “I don’t hate you. I just don’t trust you.”

“Why?” Gudovich comes to stand beside him, so close their shoulders are almost touching. They have a good view of the lake from here. Peter and some of the Prussian officers are playing tag along the bank. Someone is bound to fall in and end the night soaking wet. 

“You make stupid mistakes. Sometimes so stupid I wonder if maybe they’re not mistakes at all.”

“I don’t understand.”

Brockdorff is drunk enough to say, “You got your recommendation from Ekaterina Alexeyevna.”

 

“Yes, but…it was through someone else. I don’t actually know Her Highness. Informally, that is.” They’re silent for a moment. “All I want is to please Pyotr Fyodorovich. He has been nothing but good to me. And I would like us to get on as well. Things could go so much smoother.”

“I tell His Highness what he _needs_ to hear. You tell him only what he _wants_ to hear. Out working relationship is fraught for a reason.”

“What of our personal relationship?”

Brockdorff snorts into his glass. “Go play tag.” 

Gudovich shrugs and leaves him to rejoin the game. The nigh seems to thicken around Brockdorff as he watches the group by the lake. He watches as Peter throws his arms around Gudovich and they both go tumbling into the grass to the cheers and shouts of the other officers. 

Maybe Brockdorff distrusts Gudovich because he has come in and uprooted the order of things that Brockdorff has worked so hard to establish ever since he came to the Russian court. 

_Things would go so much smoother,_ Gudovich had said. Maybe they would, or maybe it would all end in disaster. 

_I would like us to get on,_ Gudovich had said. Perhaps in another universe, where things were different. Maybe not even then. 

Peter looks across the lawn in Brockdorff’s direction but doesn’t seem to see him. Brockdorff takes another drink. He has to trust his instincts. Gudovich is dangerous in some way. He isn’t sure in exactly which way just yet, but he is. 

Brockdorff can’t admit that he is wrong about this. Because if he is, then… 

_I’m not. I can’t be._


	4. IV

Brockdorff comes to Peter’s private study to make his morning report at half past eight. He had expected to be shown straight in but is told by a valet to wait because the Grand Duke is busy. The doors to the study are open and Brockdorff can see that it is empty. He inquires and is told that Peter has not come down yet. 

Brockdorff, finding that odd, goes through to the sitting room and eyes the closed bedchamber doors warily, considering whether it may be wise to return later. Most likely Peter and Liza had a late night. 

“Oh, M. Brockdorff, you’re here too.”

 _Or not._ He turns and automatically reaches for Liza’s hand. “Mlle. Elizabeth. Good morning.” 

Liza holds her hand out awkwardly for him to kiss. She never liked this particular ritual and Brockdorff would gladly drop it all together with her if it were not so ingrained in him. 

“Are you here to see His Highness? I was going to make my report and was told he has not come out yet. I thought…forgive me, but I thought he was with you.”

“Oh, no, no. I haven’t been able to get away for a while. I’m here to see Andrei.”

“Gudovich?” 

“Yes. I’m going to see my family on Sunday and he said he has something for Semyon, my brother.”

Brockdorff nods, vaguely recalling Liza’s little brother who must be about sixteen now. “But you were meeting him here?”

“Yes. I thought he might have an early report…”

They exchange uncertain looks as Brockdorff attempts to discern what all of this means. 

“I do hope nothing’s happened…” Liza begins. 

Just then the doors open and Peter emerges in his dressing gown. He’s halfway through a sentence, speaking to someone still inside the room. A moment later, Gudovich emerges, looking disheveled and shrugging into his uniform jacket. The both of them look a little tired, completely rumpled, but also completely content. 

This last exactly until Liza makes a high pitch sound and Peter notices her. “Oh,” he says. “Morning.” He notices Brockdorff next and groans. “Did I miss a report or some idiotic but necessary appointment? …What are you two staring at?” He turns and catches sight of Gudovich who has frozen in the doorway. “Oh. Yes. Andrei you look a mess.” 

“Did he…spend the night?” Liza asks uncertainly. 

“Yes, we got a little carried away with the wine. Now that I think of it, my headache makes sense.”

Brockdorff wants to roll his eyes, but he’s too intent on watching Gudovich’s expression, which is mostly full of embarrassment. 

“Oh, oh no.” Liza gives a short laugh and Brockdorff can’t quite discern the tone of it. “Really, Your Highness, I expected better of you. Actually, no, no maybe I didn’t.”

 _This is not good,_ Brockdorff thinks, even as Peter is clearly confused. 

“Liza, don’t shout. I had too much wine.”

“I can see that. “

Peter reaches for her but she steps out of his grasp. “Oh no, this is too much. I need a moment to…I need a moment.” She laughs in a strange, nearly hysterical fashion and runs from the room. 

“What? What—Liza, wait!” Peter chases after her, forgetting about both Brockdorff and Gudovich completely. 

Gudovich, bright red, sinks down onto the nearest sofa and begins to slowly button up his uniform. 

Brockdorff leans against the doorframe across from him and crosses his arms. “Well played.”

“What?” Gudovich stops fidgeting with the buttons and looks up. 

“Well played. Telling her to meet you here so she would see your little…escapade. You really are trying to isolate Pyotr Fyodorovich from everyone, aren’t you? First me, now Liza.”

“I’m not—I didn’t mean for her to get the wrong impression! It was an accident.”

“An accident?” Brockdorff makes a show of looking Gudovich over, everything from the disarray of his clothes to the tangles in his hair. 

Gudovich winces. “I was supposed to only come in this morning for an early report. But I stopped by last night to show His Highness sheet music for a piece I thought he might like and…he asked me to stay for wine…”

“You play violin?”

“No, piano. But not terribly well.” There’s a pause. Brockdorff isn’t sure why he had asked that question – it simply fell out. “We drank a little too much and fell asleep. It wasn’t even…an escapade, as you call it.” He’s bright red again. 

Brockdorff isn’t certain he believes this story. He studies Gudovich’s face, looking for the tell-tale signs of lovemaking – swollen lips, bruises on the neck, anything else that could be suspicious. He wouldn’t be surprised. Peter isn’t very good at controlling himself when he is tipsy and Gudovich has the most touchable hair and kissable lips of any man Brockdorff has ever met… He can almost imagine what the scene must have looked like, with them both mildly drunk and bathed in yellow candlelight. Peter’s hands would have wondered and Gudovich would have tipped his head back, exposing the tender skin of his throat. 

It would have been a very aesthetic scene if imagining it didn’t make Brockdorff nauseas. 

“His Highness does not strike me as the sort to…engage in such dalliances, as it were.” Gudovich stands, suddenly refusing to meet Brockdorff’s eyes at all.

“And you?” _Even if they only drank and slept,_ Brockdorff thinks, _Gudovich could have still set it all up, knowing Liza would get the wrong impression._

 __Meanwhile, Gudovich is giving him a steady, oddly serious look. “Not _usually._ ” He moves to walk away, but Brockdorff is determined to get the last word. 

“Your plan failed, you know. It could never have succeeded in the first place. Liza is not the jealous sort.” 

“Thank God,” Gudovich murmurs before slinking away. 

*~*

“That’s quite enough,” Brockdorff says, moving the wine bottle out of Peter’s reach. “Haven’t you been in enough trouble because of wine for one week?” 

Peter groans and drops his head into his hands theatrically. “Let me be. The love of my life is angry with me.”

“Because of Gudovich?” Brockdorff hides the wine under the table despite Peter’s protests. They’re alone in Peter’s study and Brockdorff expects to speak freely. 

“She thinks we’re having an affair.” Peter throws himself back against the pillows of the sofa; stares up at the ceiling. 

“Are you?”

“No! But it’s not even the possibility of an affair that offends her but the fact that I _didn’t tell her about it._ How can I tell her about something that doesn’t exist?” Peter throws his hands up in frustration and Brockdorff hides a smile. This is the first good news in a while. 

“She’ll come around.”

“I suppose. But why was she even there?”

“Gudovich asked her to meet him there. After his scheduled report.”

“He knew she was coming and didn’t warn me?”

Brockdorff shrugs, planning to play the situation to his own advantage. “Maybe he wanted her to get the wrong impression.”

“No. Can’t be. Andrei cares about me and what I want.”

“Maybe a little too much.”

Peter swats lazily at his shoulder. “Stop it. I’m serious. I’m angry with him now, but I don’t believe he would do it on purpose!”

“Wouldn’t he?”

“Brockdorff!”

“Well?”

“Agh!” Peter throws his hands up in frustration. 

“What if he had told someone else to meet him there? What if next time he forgets something even _more_ important and irreversible?”

“Don’t.”

“He only ever tells you what you want to hear—“ 

“Thank God someone does. All I ever hear from _you_ is complaining.” 

“He’s a menace. Send him away from court. Stay friends if you like, but send him off.”

Peter looks over at him. Brokcdorff suddenly realizes that his next words will be completely serious. “I can’t. I couldn’t ever. I want him here too badly. You can’t even imagine.” 

Brockdorff returns his serious look. “And nothing would change your mind?”

“I doubt it. Now give me my wine back.”

*~*

As soon as Brockdorff gets home, he opens up the writing desk and begins composing a dossier.


	5. V

Brockdorff is attempting to stare down Alexander Shuvalov, which is not working. He’s not the head of the Secret Chancellery for nothing. “There has to be something else.” 

Shuvalov shakes his head. “I had him searched did I not? This is all we found.”

Brockdorff feels an unnatural urge to punch something. All this trouble for some mindless, adolescent-like, driveling attempts at poetry. It was ridiculous. Not to mention that he feels like a fool. 

He had come to Alexander Ivanovich the other week with his carefully written dossier and demanded that Gudovich be investigated. Shuvalov had been skeptical and asked what exactly it was Brockdorff suspected him of. _Spying? Treason? Conspiracy? I thought he was just a country boy who’d caught a lucky break,_ Shuvalov had protested, flipping carelessly through the dossier.

 _Good cover story, isn’t it?_ Brockdorff had shot back. _Do you really think I would insult you by coming to you with something trivial?_ Shuvalov had shaken his head in response but agreed to have Gudovich observed. A few days later there were results – mainly in the form of reports that Gudovich wrote a lot, in the privacy of his rooms, usually late at night. He took some pains to keep these writings secret, though investigation of his mail did not reveal anything special and he burned about half of what he wrote. Nor had he been seen to interact with anyone who could be deemed a contact of any kind, but that was a matter of circumstance. 

Finally, Shuvalov had been convinced to order a search. But now… All they have to show for their efforts are these useless, childish professions of undying love in poetry form, half in French, half in Russian, and a few in terrible, clumsy German. 

“I really think there’s nothing there to find.” Shuvalov spreads his hands helplessly.

“Do you truly think anyone could be as foolish and naïve as Gudovich appears to be? Perhaps if he was sixteen, but for God’s sake, even Semyon Vorontsov is smarter than this and he’s as wet behind the ears as they come.” 

“Well if there is more to it, then Gudovich is better than almost every foreign spy and natural conspirator.” He gives Brockdorff a hard look. “Does that feel right to you?”

Brockdorff bites the inside of his cheek in frustration. It does not sound right at all. He’s seen Gudovich, spoken to him, spoken _about_ him. He’s seen the way he looks at Peter when no one can be expected to be looking. He’s felt the warmth of that boy’s smile and wondered at how so much hope could exit in someone in a place as scathing and crafty as the Imperial court. Or at all, for that matter. Brockdorff knows everyone thinks he is simply jealous because Peter has stopped listening to him as much as he used to. He can see that same doubt in Shuvalov’s eyes in this moment. It’s insulting that they all doubt his judgement and competence so much. But he also understands how it looks. 

There is even a part of him, growing larger with every day, that thinks that he is wrong. That Gudovich is simply an anomaly – the same sort as Peter, in fact. Perhaps that is why they gravitate toward each other. Peter, Gudovich and Liza – a ball of innocent, blind hope. Peter loves them because they remind him how to be that when he forgets. _When he decides to be practical for once in a blue moon._

 __Brockdorff isn’t even surprised that Peter loves Gudovich so much. He simply _hates_ the thought with his entire being. 

He snatches up one of the thicker packets of papers Shuvalov’s underlings had confiscated from Gudovich and storms out of the small, private study tucked into a deep corner of the palace – a true spider’s nest. 

Brockdorff heads to Gudovich’s rooms, not yet certain what exactly he intends to do. 

*~*

Brockdorff finds Gudovich in his rooms, overseeing what must be the tail end of a lengthy cleanup process. Andrei is without a coat and his hair is in a messy ponytail. He waves Brockdorff into the sitting room, clearly distracted and forgoing all pleasantries. “I’m sorry everything is in such disarray. It seems I’ve gotten on the wrong end of M. Shuvalov and his Chancellery.” 

The bafflement in his tone makes Brockdorff uneasy. He thinks of what Shuvalov had asked – if it felt right to him to assume that Gudovich was such a brilliant actor. _You have to choose one,_ Brockdorff thinks bitterly, _he’s either an incompetent mess or a hypercompetent traitor._ There are issues with both assessments, a fact Brockdorff struggles with regularly. If he had been an unwitting agent, he would have certainly gotten caught by now. 

“I can’t imagine what they even intended to find,” Gudovich says, looking around the sitting room. Servants scurry back and forth, putting the last things in order. Brockdorff imagines Gudovich must have come home to quite the mess after the search. “Well, I don’t have anything to hide, but only…they’ve taken my papers. I’ve asked for them back, but I suppose it’s unlikely I’ll get them.” In his distress, he’s nearly forgotten that Brockodrff is there at all. 

In his shirt-sleeves, looking lost as he stands in the middle of his own sitting room, Gudovich doesn’t resemble a spy at all. 

“Leave us,” Brockdorff snaps at the couple of servants who have just come in. They instantly disappear into the hall. 

Gudovich looks up. 

“I have some of your papers.” Brockdorff holds up the packet he’d taken from Shuvalov. “Scribbling, scribbling in the night and all you could come up with was this?”

Gudovich’s expression goes from confused, to horrified, to as close to furious as Brockdorff has ever seen him. 

“How dare you read my private papers!” He lunges forward but Brockdorff steps out of the way, still holding on to the packet of unsent letters. _If they could even be called letters._

“Why not? The entire Secret Chancellery has read them.” It’s an exaggeration, but Brockdorff is enjoying the look of terrified embarrassment on Gudovich’s face. “They’re not very good, you know. Or is that why you haven’t sent them? Because you have enough sense to realize that he will _never_ reciprocate. Because you have enough sense to know that if you ever—“

“You’re just jealous!” Gudovich folds his arms over his chest like a petulant child. 

“Of your mediocre love poetry?”

“That Pyotr Fyodorovich values my company more that he values yours!”

“Listen to me, you incompetent idiot of a boy.” Brockdorff begins to move toward him slowly, a step at a time to punctuate his words. The frustration and hurt that has been building up for so long now bubbling up to the surface. He could strangle Gudovich for being so… _untouchable._ “I don’t know what game you are playing. I thought Shuvalov would have been able to tell me but all he’s found was _this._ I don’t know if there’s a long game here, if perhaps you’re not even aware that someone is using you as their source, or if you really are this much of a—“

“It was you? You’re the one who had the Chancellery come after me?” Brockdorff cannot fathom why Gudovich sounds so betrayed. 

“You are a menace,” Brockdorff continues, ignoring that this entire situation suddenly feels a lot less satisfying than he thought it might be. “I cannot tell anymore if that’s conscious on your part or if it’s because you are in fact as incompetent and foolish as you look. You have ingratiated yourself into His Highness’ favor and then done nothing but give bad advice, sabotage carefully laid plans for diplomatic successes with your ignorance—“ With every step Brockdorff takes forward, Gudovich takes a step back. He is nearly up against the wall but Brockdorff continues to close in on him, using his superior height as leverage. “—jeopardized his happiness with a woman who actually loves him, and generally been a nuisance.”

“Mostly to you.” Gudovich now has his back to the wall; he has to tilt his head up to meet Brockdorff’s eyes. But there’s something new in his expression – a resolute stubbornness Brockdorff had never seen there before. 

“Perhaps.” Brockdorff feels some inner predatory instinct flare up in him. They are inches apart and Gudovich has nowhere left to go. He is not wearing his sword belt and is considerably shorter and slighter than Brockdorff. _How I would love to tear you apart._ Brockdorff brandishes the letters packet. “But all of that is about to come to an end.” He gives Gudovich a smile which, out of context, could almost be pleasant. “How do you think Pyotr Fyodorovich would react if he ever saw these? Oh, perhaps he would find them amusing in private. But how would he react if _everyone_ saw them? And word travels so quickly to the Empress.”

Gudovich swallows, the color draining out of his face, but he continues to stubbornly hold Brockdorff’s gaze. “You don’t even really think I’m a spy anymore do you? You just want me out of the way this desperately.” 

“Whatever you are, you won’t last after your _‘unnatural’_ affections for His Highness are revealed.”

“You won’t do it. It would humiliate me and destroy me and that would give you pleasure. Pyotr Fyodorovich wouldn’t be able to save me. But you won’t do it.”

“Give me one good reason why not.”

Gudovich’s mouth quirks in an imitation of a smile. Brockdorff recognizes the expression as his own and it sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine. “Because _he_ would _never_ forgive you.”   
_  
I would sacrifice favor to keep him safe,_ Brockdorff wants to say. _He would forgive me for showing them to him in private._ But he can’t get the words out. Maybe because he doesn’t want to admit that Gudovich is right; maybe it’s because he is no longer sure that there is a malicious reason for any of Andrei’s actions. 

“But perhaps you do hate me that much Then go ahead,” Gudovich continues. “Go ahead and tell him. Tell the entire court if you wish. At least it’s the truth. Every single word of those letters is true.”

_He must be bluffing. He has to be._

“I’m not like you; I’m no good at hiding my feelings. It’s just as well that everyone knows. And maybe, once you’ve done that, you will _finally_ believe me when I say that I’m not anyone’s _spy.”_ Gudovich lunges forward, pushes past him with the desperate force of a wounded animal, and runs from the room. 

*~*

Brockdorff buns the letters. 

He has no idea why.


	6. After

Brockdorff feels ashamed _after._ Perhaps, he would have even apologized if he thought it would make a difference. But nothing can make a difference _after._ He knows that by the black ribbons and court mourning that anyone with any decency wears these days. (He isn’t surprised by how relatively few those people are.) He knows it by the way Rumberg watches him when he thought Brockdorff isn’t paying attention and by the way Kihl hardly speaks. He knows it by Semyon Poroshin’s half-resolute, half-guilty expressions and by the listless way Vanya Golitsyn plucks a guitar he had gotten from God only knows where. 

Everyone knows it from the conspicuous absence of the Vorontsovs from court, even though Mikhail Vorontsov is still technically chancellor and Semyon Vorontson still _technically_ serves in the guards. Rumor has it he had wanted to resign, like Gudovich and Golitsyn. Brockdorff thinks, his uncle was right to make him stay. He is young; his current mood of disillusion will pass. (Time would prove Brockdorff wrong, but he has no knowledge of that in the dreary summer of 1762.) 

Apologies are just words. They are helpless against the truth. Against cold steal and callous hands. And broken hearts. 

*~*

In the days after Peter’s funeral, Brockdorff tries to not think about Gudovich at all. He had spent nearly the last four years obsessing over him, over everything he did and did not do. But with Peter gone, thinking about Gudovich holds no practical use and only makes him squirm with a vague sense of regret and guilt. He had sacrificed Peter’s trust and favor in order to, as he had thought, keep him safe. He had sacrificed his own time and energy so that he could keep an eye out for Gudovich’s antics. Prevent a betrayal, if it came to that. It has all come to nothing and has meant nothing – Gudovich is as loyal as they come. He proved that during the coup. 

Not like Brockdorff had truly been so blind. Mostly, he had been jealous. 

And Andrei disappears from court completely after his resignation and Peter’s funeral. That should have worried someone, but they are all in their own thoughts these days. 

*~*

Brockdorff is almost finished with packing his personal things, preparing to leave Petersburg in the morning, when Ivan Golitsyn bursts into his private study, clearly having forced his way past Brockdorff’s valet. He is flushed and clearly distressed. 

Brockdorff looks up from the pack of letters in his hand. They are early personal correspondence from Peter, the top envelope addressed in Peter’s slanted hand, the flourishes on the cursive letters achingly familiar. He blinks a few times to force himself to focus on Golitsyn, and adopts a surprised expression. 

“This is irregular, Ivan. Good evening.”

“You must come right away,” Golitsyn says, still out of breath. 

Brockdorff gently sets down the pack of letters but otherwise remained as he was. “Come where?” 

‘The Grand Duke’s rooms.” 

“You must be confused. Poroshin was the one appointed as Pavel Pet—“

“No, no. It’s Andrei. He’s been trying to see Paul. They won’t let him, of course, but he’s insistent. He won’t listen to me or anyone else.” Golitsyn lets out a long breath. “I think he’s drunk.”

Brockdorff rolls his eyes. More in exasperation than disbelief. Of course Gudovich would do something stupid like spend his time away from court getting inebriated and then attempt to do something that could get him thrown in the dungeons. “But what can I do?” he asks, not even certain that he wants to get involved. “And why the sudden interest in the Grand Duke? Of all the things that interested Gudovich in Peter, his son wasn’t one of them.” This is his best attempt at both humor and spite in the present moment. 

Golitsyn sweeps a hand through his hair. “I don’t know who else to go to. And you kept things so in hand before—Before. Please. Before he hurts himself or someone or, most likely, both.”

Brockdorff sighs and gets up from behind the desk. He looks down at the mess of private papers that still need to be sorted, burned or packed up. If he is honest, he could use a drink too. 

*~*

Andrei is arguing with Semyon Poroshin when Brockdorff gets to the Grank Duke’s rooms. They stand in the claustrophobically small antechamber, hissing spitefully at each other in French. 

“You were his adjutant! You ought to be ashamed.” 

“If I had done something wrong – if I had known – I would be ashamed. But I did not know.” Poroshin’s expression is morose. He clearly is not enjoying the conversation. He looks up on hearing footsteps and something shifts in his expression when he sees Brockdorff. 

“Andrei,” Brockdorff starts quietly. “Come off it. Semyon Andreyevich is merely young and ambitious. Not everyone can be a stand up fellow like the little Vorontsov.” 

Poroshin flushes and glares at him. Brockdorff keeps his expression blank even as Gudovich turns around to face him. His eyes light up with an unjustified hope that somehow intensifies the ache in Brockdorff’s chest, though he would have thought such a think impossible. 

“Monsieur Brockdorff! Oh, thank God. They won’t let me see Paul.” 

_He still looks like a boy,_ Brockdorff thinks, taking in Gudovich’s mussed hair and flushed cheeks. His eyes are bloodshot and every gesture is full of hysteric desperation. 

“It’s probably past his bedtime,” Brockdorff says. “Besides, you’re drunk.”

“But it’s not just _now._ They won’t let me see him at all. This is preposterous. You must help me. Pyotr Fyodorovich would want you to help me.” 

Brockdorff feels the feverish desire to slap him. _How dare you invoke his memory to_ manipulate _me._ And yet it is the truth. “I can’t help you,” he says. “I was taken off the lists. A couple of days ago.” 

Poroshin shifts uncomfortably in the background. 

Brockdorff watches Andrei’s face, the myriad of emotions that play across his face until finally, admitting defeat, he closes his eyes and hides his face in his hands. 

_He’s drunk_ , Brockdorff thinks _Drunk and heartbroken._ As the more sensible one, Brockdorff is only one of those things. 

They needed to leave. 

*~*

Gudovich doesn’t fight him as Brockdorff takes him back to his own rooms. He doesn’t know where Andrei is staying now that he is no longer at court and it is easier to simply drag him down a few hallways than to manage him while they wait for a carriage.

As soon as the door closes, Andrei slumps onto a sofa in the corner of the sitting room and examines his hands, quiet and dejected. 

Brockdorff rings for tea. 

“How did you know I was here?”

“Ivan told me. He seemed worried you would get yourself into trouble. Which you probably would have if Poroshin had more confidence in his position or if Count Panin had been there.” He pauses to give Gudovich a long, serious look “You can’t go trying to force your way into Paul’s circle. It won’t end well.”

“I just wanted to see him.” Andrei has begun to fidget. “I was never…involved the way you were. Pyotr Fyodorovich always preferred your company when he went to see his son.”

That is true. Even after they began falling out regularly, Peter still always chose Brockdorff as a companion when he went to see Paul. “Why?” It comes out before Brockdorff can stop himself. He winces inwardly as Andrei flinches. He had not mean to be cruel. But it seems that that was the only way he had ever learned to respond to Gudovich – with rejection. 

It isn’t doing either of them any favors. 

Andrei shrugs in answer just as Brockdorff’s valet came in with the tea. There is an awkward pause as they wait for the tea set to be properly placed. Ludwig is meticulous, which Brockodrff liks most other days. Once he is done, Brockdorff dismisses him for the night and gives orders to not be disturbed. 

_Pyotr Fyorodovich would have wanted you to._ And part of Brockdorff wants to help simply of his own accord. It’s the grief talking. He is certain the feeling will pass. 

He goes to sit beside Andrei on the sofa, hands clasped in his lap. He can feel Andrei watching him and only averts his eyes. He is afraid to look, afraid of what he might feel if he dies. “You were right to leave court,” Brockdorff says finally, still looking away. “It’s better that way. Safer.”

“I see you’re ready to leave;”

“Tomorrow.” 

“I’ll miss you.” It comes out so softly that Brockdorff thinks he may have imagined it. “Maybe not you. Maybe just the idea of it – all of us here together again. Everyone alive and happy. We were so happy. I don’t know.” For once in what must be his entire life, Andrei is having a hard time expressing his feelings. He is hardly meeting Brockdorff’s eyes but seems to keep moving closer to him on the sofa. “I admired you so much this whole time. Sometimes I was jealous of you, sometimes I was angry and hurt. But you always knew what the right thing to do was all along. I just wanted to make him happy and look where that led.” 

“Don’t.” And here Brockdorff has been thinking that it’s all his fault. The silence is oppressing, the darkness in the corners lonely. He wants to apologize but can’t come up with the right words. Everything his mind lands on is empty and repulsive. He wonders if Andrei feels the same way. “I never gave you enough credit. For anything. My pride wouldn’t let me. I believed you were a spy because it was easier than admitting the truth.” 

_I admired you._ How foolish, really. He looks over at Andrei and catches his eyes. This time, they manage to look each other in the face. It feels, oddly, like they only have each other now, are the only ones who can fully understand each other, understand what it is like to lose like this – to lose someone you loved and had sworn to protect and to feel like you failed miserably. 

_We were so happy._ Had they been, among the small wars they fought among themselves? Everyone at court, but Brockdorff and Gudovich most of all. 

_We were so happy._ Could they ever be again, with the memories of what had been and the fantasies of what could have been? It isn’t the sort of thing that be can erased. 

Brockdorff reaches out and pushes a strand of Andrei’s hair out of his face. It looks almost gold in the candlelight and Brockdorff remembers despite himself that it bleaches into a white-yellow by the end of summer. Andrei is looking at him with the same wide-eyed confusion as the first time they met – _Are you lost?_ Brockdorff can’t tell if Andrei has really changed. He certain has, but only in the smaller things. 

Suddenly, Andrei leans forward and kisses him. It’s somewhere between shy and desperate, a lingering kiss that does not attempt to deepen. Brockdorff, caught off guard, waits for Andrei to pull back. They look at each other wordlessly, and Andrei takes that as an invitation to try again. Brockdorff puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “What--?”

“Kiss me, Please. Just…please. Just for tonight.” Andrei fumbles, moves in closer, slides his hands onto Brockdorff’s shoulders.

It’s madness. Brockdorff knows it’s madness. Andrei does not say it but they both know that he does not want to be alone and probably assumes that the same is true for Brockdorff. 

It’s an emotional, idealistic idea. An almost romantic one. Just the sort of thing Gudovich would come up with. 

_He’s always been far too attractive and far too warm for his own good_ , Brockdorff thinks as he closes his eyes and lets Andrei kiss him again. He wants to say, _it doesn’t mean anything,_ but the words get stuck in his throat, blocked by the nauseating lump that seems to have been there for days. _Since the news came._ He just now realizes he hasn’t cried once, not even in private. Is it worth taking pride in something like that? 

Andrei is kissing him harder now, his lips searching for reciprocation as his arms wind around Brockdorff’s shoulders. The soft tenderness of it is nearly infuriating. Brockdorff wants to destroy all of Russia, the entire world. He’s been holding down the anger and the guilt-driven outrage down so hard he hasn’t even bothered to mourn properly. And all Andrei wants is comfort and reassurance and to somehow use this as…what? A replacement? No, no. A delusion. A way to gather up pieces of a broken past and make a future out of them, never forcing himself to let go. 

He lashes out. Nips at Andrei’s lip and tastes blood. Andrei makes a mewling noise and lurches back but only far enough to press their foreheads together. 

“No?” Andrei asks. He looks feverish, no longer lost but still uncertain. 

Peter had once told Brockdorff that he is too rational about everything, too methodical. He only ever did something if it had a good reason behind it and _good reason_ never included _because I want to._ He had thought then that was because he meant to go through life without being vulnerable, without making a mistake. But loving Peter had made him vulnerable. Holding on to his dislike of Gudovich had been a mistake. 

Andrei looks at him and everything in Brockdorff cries, _yes._

He doesn’t say it, but he kisses Andrei so vehemently, that Andrei has to cling to him to not fall over. Brockdorff feels his cravat go first and then the fastenings of his coat loosen. He returns the favor and they end up in just their linen shirts, tanged up on the sofa, Brockdorff’s hands in Andrei’s hair and Andrei’s leg hooked around his. Brockdorff falls back, taking Andrei with him. He gives up control of the situation completely and drifts into a strange, feverish fog where all he can feel are the kisses trailing down his neck and the way Andrei shudders when Brockdorff’s fingers find a sensitive spot of skin at the base of his neck. 

They kiss for no reason at all. Or because it’s the only way to communicate without barriers and social flourishes. It’s the most honest thing they have ever said to each other. 

A nip to his bottom lip: _I hate all of this. Why is this happening to me?_

 __A trail of kisses across his jaw: _It’s find. You’re going to be fine._

 __A soft, long, drawn out exchange of catching each other’s bottom lip and sucking it gently until the other lets out a long-held sigh: _I like you. I’ve always kind of liked you. Even if you’re obnoxious half the time._

 __A tongue forced into his mouth, and a bruising pressure of fingers against his shoulder blade: _shut up, shut up, let’s just use each other to forget._

 __And in the end, they’re breathless, Andrei lying on top of Brockdorff, his head tucked into the space between Brockdorff’s shoulder and cheek, Brockdorff’s hands spayed out over his back. “You should leave court,” Brockdorff says, and drifts into an uninterrupted sleep for the first time in days.

When he wakes up in the morning, Andrei is gone. 

*~*

Brockdorff doesn’t think he will have a chance to see Andrei again before he leaves and be potentially embarrassed by the night before, which feels both real and as though it were something out of an episode of delirium. He thinks he is safe from facing himself until Andrei catches him just as his things are being loaded onto the carriage. 

“Good morning,” Andrei says, smiling warmly, but with a hint of cautious as he approaches. 

“I see you’re sober,” Brockdorff shoots back. For once, there’s no malice in it. 

“I thought about what you said,” Andrei says. “About leaving court.” 

“Hmm?”

“I will leave. More specifically…I want to go with you.” 

“With me?” Brockdorff turns away from watching the servants and focuses his attention on Andrei. 

“To Holstein. I want to go to Holstein with you.” He bites his lip which is notably swollen from the night before. “If you’ll let me.” 

Brockdorff can hear his valet saying they’re ready to go, but his attention is full to the brim with the hope in Andrei’s eyes, which he is unable to hide. (Just like everything else Gudovich has ever felt.) “I don’t know,” Brockdorff says. “What if you’re a Russian spy.”

He says it deadpan and Andrei starts, almost takes a step back. Then, slowly, he smiles a little, choosing to take it as a joke. “I’m not a Russian spy,” he says lightly, the smile lingering. Everything about him had always been too full of hope. 

Brockdorff allows the pause to hang between them for a moment. Then says, “I believe you,” and hands Andrei up into the carriage.


End file.
